by Lisa Klein
July 3, 1863 camp south of Lutheran Seminary, west of Gettysburg
I awoke this morning to a vivid and bustling scene of preparation for yet another day of battle. A fifer merrily played “Dixie.” An infantryman drank his ground chicory “coffee” and adjusted his knapsack with an air of purpose. His rifle shone, ready for use. Officers tied on gold sashes, their buttons and braid gleaming in the morning sun. Their horses stood by, groomed and saddled. Expectation charged the air, masking the fear, the exhaustion, the uncertainty. Some men knelt and prayed for victory, for deliverance, or for luck. For their lives.
As soon as I had combed my hair, I reported to Dr. Walker, from habit and a sense of deference. The medical corps appeared ill-prepared for battle and Dr. Walker helpless to remedy the situation.
“I have enough orderlies to staff the hospital and ambulances. What I don’t have is an assistant surgeon, someone to do battlefield triage,” he lamented.
“I might be of use. I have a medicine kit, bandages, and a horse,” I replied. “And some skill in diagnosis.”
“My dear Mrs. Wilcox,” he said with irritation, “you overestimate your usefulness.” Then, seeing how his words stung me, he mumbled an apology, and with a tired wave of his hand, said, “Do what you wish. But I cannot be responsible for you.”
“Then, sir, I will be responsible for myself,” I said, and turned to leave.
“Wait!” he called and began to rummage through some crates until he came up with a piece of canvas marked with a red cross. “If you must be in the way, this might keep you from getting shot at.”
I fastened the canvas to my haversacks and fixed them behind Dolly’s saddle. Then I rode to where John’s regiment had taken up position in the hollow of a field near the house of a Henry Spangler. Like a passport, the red cross on Dolly’s flank allowed me to move freely among the men. I dispensed iodine for cuts, balm for a powder burn, and bound up an ankle sprained on the uneven ground.
By listening and observation, I learned much about the situation of the two armies. Our soldiers hold this entire ridge to the west of Emmitsburg Road, supported by 160 guns placed in batteries as far as the eye can see, iron beasts with their mouths facing the enemy. The Yankees occupy a ridge about a mile away and are hidden by the trees. Their batteries cluster in the center. Lee believes that Meade has strengthened his flanks, expecting an attack there. So he plans to strike at the center and break the Yankee line in two. Yet what if Meade’s center is stronger than Lee suspects, and his flanks encircle and crush Lee instead? What a terrible responsibility it must be to plan a battle. Ordinary men would shrink from making decisions when so many lives are at stake. Generals must be a different caliber of men.
It is noon, and I have retreated to a sheltered spot until my services are needed. Like the newspaper correspondents in their battered suits, I write and peer through my field glasses. I see men pelting each other with green apples from the Spanglers’ orchard. I guess it is better to throw them than to eat them and be cramped and sick. Now General Pickett’s troops are moving forward, forming a line several men thick at the edge of the woods, behind the artillery. Officers on horseback gallop between the batteries where the teams of cannoneers wait at their positions.
1:30 p.m. A terrible artillery barrage is underway. Two blasts from our guns to the south triggered a succession of explosions like the banging of a stick along a picket fence, magnified ten-thousandfold. The hellish noise persisted for many minutes, until thick clouds of smoke obscured everything, even the gunners themselves. Now the Yankees return the fire. Through the smoke, flashes of flame reveal their cannons’ mouths. The air grows acrid with smoke and powder, making my eyes water.
A grim-faced General Longstreet rides by with his officers.
Looking through my field glasses, I see a caisson explode, hurling balls of flame and splintered wood. A gunner lies on the ground. Tom holds the restless horses. An officer points to the gun, which has fallen still. He is making Tom take the post of the injured gunner! I watch Tom climb astride the ammunition box. He hands the round iron ball to a second gunner who rams it into the muzzle, while a third lights the fuse. Then Tom jumps to the ground and pulls a lanyard and the gun discharges its deadly load, recoils violently, and disappears behind the smoke.
Two orderlies with stretchers join me, waiting for a lull in the fighting. One is Thomas Langan, whom I recognize from John’s regiment.
“Do they keep firing until all the guns are destroyed?” I shout, but Langan seems not to hear me. He gestures and shouts. I believe he is trying to tell me that when our guns have taken out theirs, our foot soldiers can advance and seal the victory. Oh, I pray for the end of this battle and freedom from this horror!
Lizzie
Chapter 42
As I dodged the ankle-turning ruts, another shell overshot its mark and exploded in a field behind me. There was nowhere to take cover, so I kept running until I came to General Meade’s headquarters. The beams supporting the porch had been shot away and the roof sagged dangerously. The flags were gone, and a glance in the windows confirmed that the place was abandoned. A bleeding horse lay on the ground, neighing pitifully while straining the rope that tethered it to a tree. I pulled the the knot until it came loose, and the horse dropped its heavy head to the ground.
I kept on going. My feet throbbed with pain and my throat felt parched. I tossed away the empty canteen, but kept the rifle, though it banged against my side with every step. I struck out over the fields to avoid a regiment of bluecoats coming toward me. It was about six hundred yards to the Baltimore Pike, from which I could see Culp’s Hill. Its sides had been stripped to build defenses that sheltered a line of guns. The trunks of trees were gouged and spotted with black holes. Some had their limbs torn off as if by an angry giant. Men were carrying the wounded to ambulances that blocked the road.
“Is Culp’s Hill still ours?” I called out to one of the drivers.
“It sure is! We sent them Johnnies running,” he said. “They’ve retreated toward Hanover Road.”
“That means this end of the line held up!” I exclaimed, remembering General Warren’s description of the fishhook-shaped defense.
“Don’t count your chickens yet, missy. Meade’s still got his hands full over yonder.” He indicated Cemetery Ridge. “There’s probably six thousand of General Hancock’s men along the ridge, and Lord knows how many Johnnies facing ‘em, and they’re not about to shake hands and call it a day yet.”
“General Meade hasn’t been injured or captured?” I asked, worried.
“No, not so far as I’ve heard.” The driver spat a stream of brown juice into the road. “But they don’t tell us the half of what’s going on. So, what’s your business?”
“Just tell me, can I get into town safely?”
“Sure. Climb up, and you can ride along that way, once I’m loaded up,” he offered.
But I was too eager to get home, so I thanked him and hurried on. At the edge of town I saw a house with its windows broken and the jambs riddled with bullet holes. Remembering the corporal’s warning about snipers, I took off Martin’s hat and shook out my hair. But the street seemed deserted, with no soldiers or townspeople in sight.
Then I noticed a small boy sitting on a low stone wall along the street, his head in his hands.
“Hello? Are you all right?” I said.
The boy looked up. It was Ginnie Wade’s eight-year-old brother.
“Harry? Don’t you live on Breckenridge Street? Why are you down here all alone?”
“This is my auntie Georgia’s house,” he said.
“Does your mother know where you are?”
“She’s here. We all are.”
“Ginnie, too? Tell her to come and visit Lizzie in a few days. I have so much to tell her, but I have to get home now.”
In reply, the boy only whimpered.
“Harry, come inside this minute! It’s not safe out there.” Ginnie’s mother appeared at the cellar
door. Her face was red and swollen. “Why, is that Lizzie Allbauer?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wade,” I said, going up to her. “What’s happened? Is someone ill?” I thought of Georgia’s new baby. Sometimes, I knew, a baby would seem perfectly healthy and then just get sick or even die for no reason.
“No, it’s my poor Ginnie!” she wailed, dabbing her eyes. “She came to help Georgia with the new baby, and then we all came because of the fighting in town. But the rebels hiding around here started firing, hitting the house over a hundred times. One bullet struck the bedpost and barely missed Georgia. Then this morning, Ginnie got up early to make bread.”
Another sob escaped Mrs. Wade and I touched her shoulder in sympathy. But why hadn’t they all stayed in the cellar?
“Ginnie was kneading the dough when a bullet came right through the door. Lizzie, hurry home now, before—”
“Ginnie was shot?” I interrupted. “But will she be all right?”
“Lord, no,” Mrs. Wade wailed. “It struck her in the heart and she died that moment.”
I ran the rest of the way home, imagining the worst: our house in flames and Mama and Margaret killed for harboring soldiers. Tears stung my eyes at the thought of Ginnie’s death. I ran past the barricades that had stopped me two nights ago and now lay broken in the street. Past the Methodist church, where wounded men leaned against stones in the burial ground. Past St. James Church, where men unloaded boxes from a wagon marked “U.S. Sanitary Commission.” Our house was now in sight. I thanked God it looked exactly as it had two days earlier. I tried the front door but it was locked. Not a sound came from within. I went around to the kitchen door. A bucket of dirty water stood next to a pile of kindling. Was this a good sign or a bad one? I tried the latch, and it, too, held firm.
“Mama? I’m home. Margaret? It’s me, Lizzie,” I shouted, thumping on the door. I thought I heard footsteps and saw the curtain in the kitchen window move. Then the door opened, and I fell into Mama’s arms.
“Oh, bless Jesus, my prayers are answered again!” she cried, covering my face with kisses. Over her shoulder, I could see Margaret, her eyebrows raised in a mute question.
“Jack and Clara are safe at the Weigels’,” I said, and she sagged with relief.
The next few moments were a blur. I heard footsteps coming up from the cellar steps and expected to see one of the soldiers. But instead, bounding through the doorway, came my brother Ben, and behind him, a broad smile on his dark face, stood Amos.
Then we were all crying and talking at once. I told Amos that he was a daddy, and he hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe. Ben wanted to know where I’d gotten the rifle. Mama scolded me for leaving the Weigels’, but Margaret defended me. I asked about Ben and Amos’s journey, but first Mama wanted to hear about the battle, for they had been living in the cellar without news for almost three days.
I thought about what I should tell them and what I should spare them. I said there had been fighting on Little Round Top, but I didn’t mention that Luke’s regiment was called to defend the hill. I described meeting General Meade but didn’t say that I had seen men blown apart in Plum Run Valley. The spies in our wagon, the stack of coffins beside the road, the death of Ginnie Wade—these I kept to myself, for the time being.
“What happened to the soldier in the hall?” I asked Mama.
“He didn’t last the night, God rest his soul. I must write to his family.”
I was not particularly saddened by the news. Perhaps I was fresh out of tears, as I had cried so many of them lately.
“Everyone back to the cellar. There may still be snipers around,” Mama ordered, and we traipsed reluctantly down the stairs. In the basement, Noah Zimmer sat with his bad leg resting on a stool.
“Brave little lady, I hear,” he said when he saw me. “Wish I could get out there and chase them rebels like you been doing.”
“Where’s your friend, John Ray?” I asked.
“Went back to the regiment. I tried to go too, but your ma wouldn’t let me. So I reckon I’m stayin’ here. Least I’m not getting shot at.”
I turned to Amos and Ben. “Now tell me everything that happened to you.”
“Well, getting to York was the easy part,” said Amos, stroking his chin.
“I drove the wagon the whole way,” boasted Ben.
“Only took us two days, spite of the rain. But when we pulled up, the butcher wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with me. He said I done stole Mr. Allbauer’s stock and he ought to call the constable. ‘If I stole it, how come I’m bringin’ it to you for safekeepin’?’ I asked, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“I never trusted that Mr. Schupp,” I said.
“When I told him Mama sent us, he called me a lying pipsqueak,” said Ben.
“We will never deal with him again,” said Mama.
“Then I remembered that Mama had an uncle Herman who lived near Wrightsville,” Ben went on. “It took us a whole day to find him, but he said he’d keep the stock.”
“What good thinking, Ben!” I said.
“We waited there a couple of days, ‘cause we heard there were rebs in the area. But we knew everyone would be worried the longer we stayed away, so we decided to come home. That’s when our adventure really started.”
“Passin’ through Wrightsville on our way back, we landed in the middle of wagons an’ refugees all jammed up on the turnpike. The rebs were comin’ up behind them an’ the local militia was guardin’ the bridge in front of them. No one could cross the river. People shouted at us, ‘You’re crazy to be headin’ to York. The rebels have taken everythin’ in it!’ Well, we were glad we didn’t leave the livestock there.” Amos chuckled.
Now Ben interrupted, too excited to stay quiet.
“Then the whole Confederate army filled the road, and me and Amos hightailed it for the bluffs along the river. We could hear fighting, but we couldn’t see anything with all the buildings and warehouses in the way. Then we heard great whooshing and crackling and saw that the bridge was on fire. Whenever a piece broke off and fell into the water, it sizzled and sent up steam and smoke.”
“But why would the rebels burn the bridge?” I asked.
“It wasn’t them who burned it,” said Amos. “It was the militia, to keep the rebs from gettin’ to the railroad on the other side. But then the fire spread to houses and buildings near the wharf, an’ we saw some-thin’ unforgettable.” He shook his head.
“The rebel army turned into a fire brigade!” shouted Ben. “The soldiers joined the townspeople, passing buckets and pots of water from hand to hand like they were trying to save their own houses.”
“Can you believe that?” said Mama, touching her hand to her heart. “Helping each other, not like enemies but like brothers.”
“That night,” Amos said, “we slept in the woods. Monday we started to pick our way back toward York, stayin’ clear of the main roads. But it commenced rainin’ hard an’ Ben here was shiverin’, so we holed up in a barn somewhere near Hunterstown.”
“I wasn’t sick,” Ben protested. “Just tired. And hungry.”
“We figured the farmer wouldn’t grudge us the shelter or a few potatoes from his garden. But we was pretty wrong about that.” Amos winked at Ben.
“What do you mean? What happened?” I prompted.
“We woke up the next morning with rifles in our faces!” cried Ben, hoisting an imaginary gun. “A farmer sood there with two rebs who itched themselves like they were full of lice. The farmer told them Amos was a runaway. One of the soldiers said, ‘We’ll take care of him,’ and gave the farmer some money.”
“There you have it!” interrupted Margaret, indignant. “I’ve always said the country around here was filled with copperheads and secret slavers.”
“I told them over and over that Amos was a free man. One of them finally said, ‘I b’lieve you, son, but you know I jus’ don’t care. He b’longs to me now an’ he’ll fetch a good sum,’” said Ben, imitating the soldier’s drawl
. “They tied up Amos and argued about whether I’d try to run away and rat on them, till they decided to tie me up too. We sat all day listening to those two no-counts jawing and boasting. They commenced drinking, and Amos whispered to me, ‘When they fall asleep, we got to get away somehow.’ But I couldn’t even reach my pocket knife.”
Ben paused and lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He was clearly enjoying having everyone’s attention.
“Go on, tell us how you managed to escape,” I urged him.
“Well, Amos was worried about me being sick, so I decided I would act like I was. I started coughing and shaking and added some moaning, too. The rebels were looking scared I was going to die on them. ‘We don’t want him anyway, just the nigger,’ they said, and untied me. ‘Go up to the farmhouse, boy, and tell the missus to take care of you.’ And they booted me out.”
“I’ll watch for that trick next time you’re trying to get a day off school,” Mama said, ruffling Ben’s hair.
“So there I was, standing outside in the dark, wondering what to do next. I decided I’d wait until they fell asleep and then go back in and cut Amos free. When I heard them snoring, I tried the door but they had bolted it from the inside. So I crept all around the barn but there was no other way in. It was all made of stone. Then I nearly tripped over a shovel lying in the weeds, and that gave me an idea. I dug a hole outside the barn door. The ground was soft, and after a while the hole was a couple of feet deep and about four feet long. But because of the rain, it kept filling up with water and mud.”
“I could hear you were up to somethin’ out there,” said Amos, smiling.
“I waited there, hoping for the rebs to come out and, you know, relieve themselves. I was about to bang the shovel on something to get their attention, when the door creaked open, and I barely had enough time to flatten myself against the side of the barn and hope he couldn’t see me.”
“Clever-ass boy,” said Noah Zimmer, clapping his hand against his thigh. “Sorry, ma’am, I mean he’s a right smart boy.”